Chapter 7
This sort of thing required a celebration. Ben had finished the siding, and he’d spent time with Cami Jackson.
It still boggled his mind that she’d showed up. Maybe this was God’s way of telling him to sell, assuming God was interested in the inn. Or interested in Ben.
Ben opened the door to the pizzeria for Cami. Dimmed lights, soft music, flickering candles—it was the perfect mix for romance.
He chose a table near the front, but Cami moved to the back corner. A booth where he was sure couples liked to hide, sneak kisses.
“Is this okay? I like sitting in a booth.” Her smile was innocent and sweet. Of course, he agreed.
Cami reached for a menu. “This place smells amazing. Cheese, tomato sauce, pepperoni.” She set her menu back. “I’m having pizza.”
“Want to share a large New York pepperoni?” Ben said.
“You know it.”
The waitress set down a basket of garlic knots and took their drink orders: a root beer for him and a sweet tea for Cami. He ordered their pizza. With extra pepperoni.
Cami passed out the small plates, and they each chose a garlic knot.
“So, tell me, Ms. Jackson, you still interested in the inn?”
“More than anything. I’ve been thinking how it’s a resting place. A place for artists to come and imagine, paint, sculpt, whatever. It doesn’t matter, though, because you’re not selling. At least, not to me.”
To be honest, he didn’t know what he was doing, but best to let the conversation die. Right on time, the pizza arrived, and the goodness of Angelo’s pizza took over. He and Cami talked current events and business, touched on politics for a few seconds, then it was her turn to get personal.
“Is there a beautiful woman beside the successful hotelier, Ben?”
“No. I dated someone when I lived in Manhattan, but she was a New Yorker, and I was a Southerner.”
“And never the two shall meet?”
He laughed. “She had her career, I had mine.”
“Do you think about it? Settling down, getting married?”
“If I could have what my grandparents had, yes. But the world is a different place.” He took a final bite of his slice, washed it down with root beer, and turned the tables. “What about you? Is there a handsome guy beside the successful property developer?”
“No. But if I could have what my parents had when I was young, yes. Not what they turned into when they grew apart. He worked. They fought. She left him to paint at the inn. She said it was her quiet place.”
“Granddaddy used to say, ‘Marriage is simple. All you have to do is serve the other and not be selfish.’”
She laughed. “Oh, is that all?”
“Okay, Cami, come on. I’m sitting across from you.” Ben tossed his napkin on the table and leaned toward her. “I know what I see. Don’t tell me you don’t have guys giving you their number or asking for yours.”
“Not really. The last guy I dated was three years ago, and we only went out a handful of times.”
“You’re intimidating, Cami. Beautiful. Smart. Successful. Confident.”
“Do I intimidate you?”
“Right down to my boots.”
“You are so full of it, Ben Carter.” The candlelight haloed her high cheeks and made her eyes bright. “And I’m not confident. I’m just terrified to fail.”
“We all fail. You get back up and try again.”
“Not if you’re the daughter of Brant Jackson. If you fail, it costs a life.”
“Costs a life? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I’m just yakking.”
The waitress arrived to refill their drinks, and the moment was lost. Had Cami had a failure that’d nearly cost a life? Surely, she wasn’t talking about her mother. Or anyone.
He was about to pay the bill when a string quartet took their place in the corner. When they started playing, the romantic atmosphere increased.
The ma?tre d’ rushed about the dining room, urging couples to dance. “You, signore, dance with the bella signora.” He stepped aside and motioned to the dance floor, where one other couple did a slow sway. “Per favore.”
Ben gave Cami a nod toward the floor, and she slipped out of the booth.
With her soft hand holding his, nothing else in the world seemed to matter.
It was like they were the only two people on the dance floor.
The only two people in the world. The melody of the strings guided each step and sway.
Cami inched closer as his arm tightened around her back.
She smelled like the flowers in the inn’s gardens, and he remembered a long-ago night on the dock of the pond with fireflies their only light.
They’d been thirteen or fourteen, sitting with a good six feet between them, talking about school and friends, about his parents’ call to the mission field, about her love of painting.
He’d been more comfortable with her than anyone other than his grandparents. And he was just as comfortable with her now.
The song ended, but they continued to dance. Cami was warm and enticing.
“I think I could do this all afternoon,” he whispered.
“Then we should. The real world will come for us tomorrow.”
He laughed and leaned to see her face. If he kissed her, he’d sink into something he felt sure he’d never escape from. So he cleared the emotion from his throat and tried to think of something to say.
“So, if you bought the inn, what’s your vision? Really. How will you manage it? What will you do with it?”
“I’ll have to think, come up with a plan. Last I heard, you turned me down.”
“Okay, I’ll give you forty-eight hours.” He channeled Marlon Brando again with a deep, gravelly voice.
She laughed and gently patted his chest. “Don’t remind me of how stupid I sounded.
” She moved easily with him as the dance continued and the quartet began a new song.
“In my mind, the inn has always been a special place. I see artists like Mom set up on the grounds, painting, finding their muse. The place was always more like a refuge, a way to escape the cares of the world.”
A refuge. Cami painted the heart of the inn with her words. His grandparents had themselves been a refuge. For Ben. For those in need on a dark, stormy night.
The inn was just the tool they’d used. How was it that Cami, the daughter of the biggest developer in the South, who’d not been to the inn in fifteen years, understood its purpose better than he?
“What?” she said. “You sighed.”
“I just realized how brilliant you are,” he said, bringing her close and tracing his finger along her jawline. “That’s the inn to a T. I’m going to miss you when I go.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll be in Indianapolis, and you’ll find some gorgeous sheila to capture your heart.”
“Won’t you find a nice, handsome Hoosier to capture yours?” He searched her eyes for some sort of answer, but she’d closed the windows to her soul. His, on the other hand, felt wide open.
However, when Cami shifted her stance and rested her cheek on his shoulder, he started to wonder if his heart hadn’t always belonged to her. Would always belong to her.
“Hey,” he said, his voice husky. “The Fourth of July is next week. HB still does it big at the Scott farm.”
“Next to Christmas it was my favorite holiday. Dad and Mama brought us every year when we were little.”
“Will you come? Go with me? You can have any room or cottage you want.”
“A room. Not a cottage.” Ben heard between the lines.
Not Cottage Three. “I’ll pay for my room.
” She moved with him as he stepped back and twirled her under his arm, then pulled her close again.
“But I’ll let you buy me a hot dog at the celebration.
Oh, do they still have the tables and tables of homemade desserts? ”
“All the pie you can eat. The Fourth of July, then. It’s a date.”
She rested her head on his shoulder again and whispered, “It’s a date.”
For a date, the weather was perfect. And Ben was an even better escort.
The Fourth of July arrived on a beautiful hot and humid Saturday. Cami had met Ben at the inn. They’d driven his Granddaddy’s old truck across town and parked on the western end of the field.
Ben slung a couple camping chairs over his shoulder. When she stumbled, stubbing her toe on a clump of dirt and grass, he reached for her.
“You all right?” Ben held on to her longer than necessary, but it was nice to have a man catch her when she fell. Woman power and all that aside.
Note to self: Never wear new red-canvas Sperrys to the Scotts’ Fourth of July bash. Even if they match your new patriotic shirt.
They followed the music and scent of barbecue to the party, found Myrtle May and Ray reclining and eating under a large maple and camping fly. The large golden retriever curled at their feet happily chewing on a tennis ball.
“Put your chairs there.” Myrtle May pointed to a spot on the other side of the folding table. “Walt’s gone to set up his cookies at the inn’s booth. He has some of those ten percent off two or more nights coupons you wanted printed up. Good thinking, Ben.”
“Want to walk around, get some food?” Ben said, taking her hand again.
“You owe me a hot dog.”
“Fine, but I’m going for barbecue.”
There was food everywhere. Good food. Amazing food. Cami sampled Haven’s cookie specialty, the White Chocolate Cookies and Cream Cookie, as well as one of Walt’s cinnamon sugar masterpieces.
“Where has this been all my life?” She held it up to Ben as if she’d discovered fine gold.
“In Walt’s head.”
“You should get him to write down the recipe. You could market this. Make money for the inn and Walt. Seriously.”
“Or you could make money for the inn. I’ll be in Sydney.”
Cami tugged on his arm, drawing him up short. “Are you saying you’ll sell me the inn?”
Ben shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”
“For today, you’re not going to Sydney and I’m not moving to Indianapolis, okay?”
“Why? We’ll only be disappointed when we face reality tomorrow. In fact, I’m probably going to have to fly down to Sydney in the next week or so.”